The familiar scent of filth lingered everywhere.
Roan absentmindedly stared at the starry sky. His stomach growled with hunger.
He pressed a hand against his belly, as if urging it to stop bothering him.
Earlier that morning, he had managed to steal some bread. But now, Samantha the baker was alert—there wouldn't be another chance. The other bakers in the inner city were protected by the Thieves' Guild.
If he wanted more food, he'd have to venture into the outer city—a place that would surely get him killed.
The slums were still slums, but at least the inner city had a lower death rate. It was an unspoken rule among the rats not to disturb the peace of the inner city. As long as they followed it, the Lord of Sha turned a blind eye to the illegal activities elsewhere.
He looked up again. The sky was clear tonight. Good—he wouldn't need to find shelter.
A sudden streak of light caught his attention—a shooting star. It was said that if one prayed to the Lady while looking at a falling star, she would offer guidance.
Before it disappeared, Roan whispered, "Please give me food, oh Lady Fanhu."
He didn't believe it would work, but he had to try.
The sound of footsteps drew his attention. He turned—and his eyes widened.
It was Bruce, the Thieves' Guild's local lackey. And he was coming straight for Roan.
He quickly stood up, hoping it was a mistake. But the alley was empty. Bruce was definitely here for him.
Roan bowed his head in submission and asked, "Lord Bruce, what can I help you with?"
Bruce stopped a few steps away and growled, "Did you steal from Samantha the baker?"
Roan's stomach sank. He immediately understood what had happened. Damn it—when did Samantha come under the Guild's protection?
His mind raced for a solution. Lying was out of the question. The Guild had no patience for disobedience. He still remembered how arrogant John was strangled to death with his own intestines. Besides, Bruce had come for him directly—someone had sold him out.
Not daring to test Bruce's patience, Roan knelt and pressed his forehead to the filthy ground. He quickly said, "I didn't know Samantha had Guild protection. If I'd known, I never would have stolen from her."
The reply came in the form of a boot to his head. His frail body rolled sideways. His vision blurred, dizziness washed over him—then pain struck like lightning.
He gasped. He'd been kicked in the stomach. Bile rose in his throat, but he forced it back down. You didn't stain a Guild member's boots unless you wanted your tongue cut out—after swallowing the bile back in.
Bruce grabbed Roan by his hair and yanked him upright. Roan hadn't even noticed when his hair was seized.
He didn't resist. The faster this ended, the better.
Bruce looked down at him with something between pity and scorn and said, "Should've kept your ears open. The Guild's reputation is shaky as it is. Now you've made it worse."
Roan's eyes widened in horror. This wasn't just a warning—he was going to be made an example.
Bruce's expression changed. He seemed to consider something. After a pause, he said, "I'll give you a boon."
Hope sparked in Roan—but doubt quickly followed, and Bruce's next words confirmed his fears.
"I'll only cut one finger. All you have to do is not scream—and then get out of the inner city. If you scream, I'll kill you," Bruce said, as if granting a favor. And curse the Lady, he really was. Normally, Roan would've been beaten to death.
Roan swallowed all protests. He was lucky—and he knew better than to push that luck.
Bruce released his hair, and Roan stumbled backward, trying to regain his balance.
"Give me your hand," Bruce ordered.
Roan took a deep breath and extended his trembling left hand.
He bit his lip to stifle the scream he knew was coming.
"I'll make it quick," Bruce said, gripping his forefinger. He pulled out a sharp knife.
Roan instinctively tried to pull his hand back, but Bruce's grip was unyielding. The blade flashed down.
At first, Roan felt nothing. Then the pain struck like fire. A scream clawed its way up his throat, but he bit down harder—until blood flowed from his lip.
Blood poured from the stump where his finger had been. He was losing too much.
He collapsed backward, groaning at the pain. Using his right hand, he tore a piece of cloth from his rags and pressed it to the wound, trying to stem the bleeding.
He tried to mimic the motions he'd seen the local physician perform, but pain and exhaustion clouded his focus.
He couldn't let his guard down yet. People often gave hope just before the killing blow. Not that it mattered—the alley's only exit was blocked by Bruce.
As Roan struggled with his makeshift bandage, Bruce pulled out a cloth, wrapped the severed finger, and placed it in a bag.
"Get out of here before the next bell. If I get in trouble because of you, I'll hunt you down," Bruce warned.
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked away.
Roan exhaled in relief—but it didn't last. He had to stop the bleeding.
Before he could act, the bile he'd suppressed surged up. He turned and vomited, emptying his stomach. So much for that stolen bread.
He wiped his face with the back of his hand and winced as pain shot through it.
Not taking more chances, he pressed the rag tighter against the bleeding hand, biting back the agony. The cloth was soaked in no time.
Finally, he collapsed to the ground and took deep breaths to calm his racing heart.
His mind was foggy. Thinking was difficult. With the danger gone, fatigue washed over him like a tide.
But he couldn't rest. It would take him at least half a bell to reach the outer city—more, in his condition. He still had time. He'd just close his eyes a moment to gather his strength before—
He grabbed his bleeding hand harshly, letting the pain jolt him awake. If he fell asleep now, he might not wake again.
Using his right hand, he pushed himself upright and steadied himself.
He didn't own much—just a waterskin he didn't bother to look for.
He glanced at the sky again and cursed his past self. His parents had treated him like a slave, but at least he hadn't lost any fucking fingers back then.
He shook his head and took a deep breath. Anger wouldn't help. He needed clarity to survive—especially now that he was practically banned from the inner city for months.
Reluctantly, he decided to retrieve the waterskin. Who knew if he'd find clean water out there?
But before he could move toward the back of the alley, a ringing sound sliced through his thoughts.
His head throbbed as the sound continued.
Suddenly, words echoed in his mind—words that felt both foreign and his own:
"XXXXXXX is impressed by your tenacity."
"A gift has been bestowed."
"Knowledge access has been granted."
"An assistant will be provided by the Management System to aid the bestowed."
"A lower-grade assistant system has been exchanged for five years of the bestowed's lifespan."
"The assistant will choose which world to access for knowledge, in place of the troubled bestowed."
"Assistant has chosen Earth-279902793789."
"Access has been granted."
"We wish you good luck, Bestowed."